


The Captive Emperor

by kaijusizefeels



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftercare, Catsuit, Dom Illya, Double Penetration, Humiliation, I'm Not Ashamed, Kinks, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Please read notes, Sub Napoleon, trashiest thing I've written, twin illya, wrecked Napoleon, yes I am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 10:03:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13292520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/pseuds/kaijusizefeels
Summary: Master thief, the Emperor, is out to steal the Star of Josephine. But he may be in over his head this time.(PLEASE READ THE END NOTES IF YOU HAVE TRIGGERS)





	The Captive Emperor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_worrying_kind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_worrying_kind/gifts).



> I consider this an AU of my previous twin!Illya story [Two Hearts As One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10886397). You don't need to read that for this story but it does explain some background information on the Kuryakin twins, and how they fit into movie canon. Namely, their real names are Artyom and Kirill. To avoid confusion in this fic, I've used Illya and Artyom instead.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful Manasi and the_worrying_kind. All the mistakes are on me. All the terrible ideas are on my muse (and probably too much free time and "cheers" during the holidays).
> 
> (PLEASE SKIP TO THE END NOTES IF YOU HAVE TRIGGERS)

This is too easy. Napoleon snickers as he tiptoes between the white marble columns through the ornately decorated hallway. He’s dressed from neck to foot in a black Lycra catsuit. His muscular physique, firm and generous pecs and his lush ass are especially highlighted by the suit. The material is cool and smooth on his skin like a caress. His nipples harden to a peak due to the coolness of the air conditioning, rubbing gently against the smooth material with every step.

Napoleon's steps are graceful and silent as he sneaks around. He keeps to the shadows, mostly out of habit rather than necessity because it’s after hours in the museum. His fingers itch to touch and take the multitude of beautiful paintings decorating the walls but he has his eyes on a bigger, shinier prize stored at the end of the hall: the priceless Star of Josephine. Napoleon and Josephine, it surely must be fate that the culmination of his entire career is to obtain this priceless jewel.

He stops at the threshold of the small room that is reserved solely for displaying the Star of Josephine. Nestled on a pillow of dark blue velvet, it shines brilliantly in its glass display. Napoleon’s eyes gleam with desire. But first, he knows that the diamond would not be left without any protection. He puts on his prototype goggles. “Not bad,” he grins as he sees the laser lines through the lens sweeping across the floor near the display case and across the wide entryway. It seems that the museum security is finally learning after several embarrassing high-profile thefts by the Emperor.

“But still not good enough.” Because they were only concerned about thieves walking into the room, they neglected to consider the decorative windows along the walls. The windows are only there to give the illusion of light and space got when the small space is packed with visitors.

He can see that the space underneath the rightmost window is clear of laser lines.

_Perfect._

Napoleon cuts and removes the glass easily and lifts himself through the frame. He’s got a clear path about a foot wide all the way to the display case. Really, they’re making it too easy. His torso is mostly through when he hears voices coming from a distant corridor.

Napoleon frowns.

He knows from his week-long reconnaissance that there are a few guards assigned for the night. However, from his knowledge of their route, they should still be in the East Asian art section. So why are they here now? The voices are getting closer. Napoleon decides that a temporary retreat is the wiser action; with any luck, they won’t notice one small window missing its glass in the dark. He draws back and... huh.

Napoleon buckles a couple of inches and stops.

Fine. He’ll just go forward and again, he only manages a few clumsy wobbles.

What the...?

He fidgets, holds his breath, tries to shift the smooth material of his suits to no avail. He is well and truly stuck. Such a thing has never happened to him before. How is it possible?

Not only can he hear voices, but he can also hear the footsteps of one-night guard breaking off from the group and coming ever closer. Napoleon resumes his desperate struggle, wiggling back and forth in the constraint. The Lycra glides smoothly on his skin but does not give him enough friction to escape, trapping him as much as the window frame.

This must be some mistake; something must be—

“Here is not something you see every day.” A deep, accented voice says behind him.

Bright light momentarily blinds Napoleon due to the goggle he’s wearing. Large hands roughly pull them off his face as Napoleon squints tearfully up at his captor.

He recognizes the guard immediately; the tall blond Russian had caught Napoleon’s eyes earlier during his reconnaissance. He takes in the broad frame, eyes lingering briefly on the substantial bulge behind the tight stretch of the uniform pants. Napoleon had even toyed with the idea of leaving his trademark card, especially for this guard.

The handsome but severe face frowns down at him. “Thief!” the man hisses.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I’m part of the janitorial staff?” Napoleon grins winningly up at him.

He gets no smile back but a deeper frown. A large, calloused hand grips his chin, forcefully tilting his face from side to side. Napoleon reddens underneath the burning gaze of cold blue eyes.

“Americans are too soft. Thieves must be punished to deter behavior.”

“And I completely agree with you, Peril.” Napoleon tries to smile disarmingly once again. “But you see, this is my first time. I’m a changed man. So why not just let me go with a slap on the wrist. What do you say? I promise I won’t—“

His words die down as he sees the guard, Kuryakin — he finally recalls the name tag— walks out of his field of view and around to the other side of the wall.

Napoleon shivers as he realizes his vulnerable position, his waist pinched uncomfortably in the wooden frame, his torso and arms stuck on one side of the partition while his legs and ass are raised on the other. Kuryakin has fallen silent; even his footsteps have faded. Napoleon almost believes that, by some miracle, the Russian guard has decided to leave him alone when a massive palm slaps sharply across his right buttock. The loud slap echoes through the empty corridor.

“Ah!” Napoleon cries out in surprise.

“Quiet!” Kuryakin barks and delivers an equally forceful slap to Napoleon’s left buttock.

Napoleon is mortified to feel his ass bounce due to the force behind the slaps. He struggles harder, trying to push himself through the window and away from those hands. His efforts fail to gain him any respite or relief; they only manage to make his pert backside, encased in skintight Lycra, jiggle and shake enticingly in front of Kuryakin.

 

* * *

 

Illya finds himself growing hard in his uniform. The little thief has no idea what he looks like on this side of the wall as he struggles to try to free himself like a hooked fish.

Suddenly, he hears a loud tear as the tight material announces its protest against Napoleon’s insistent movements and tears between those lovely, round mounds to reveal smooth pale skin. Of course, the thief is not wearing any underwear beneath the catsuit.

“Oh God,” he hears Napoleon’s choked cry. He’s sure that the thief’s face is currently scarlet with mortification to match the blush that is appearing on those perfect cheeks in front of him. Illya rips the tear further down to reveal a lovely pink hole, contracting slightly due to its sudden exposure to the cold.

If Illya were with a lover, he would have kissed it and called it beautiful. But it’s only the naughty hole of a little thief and thieves should be punished. Illya slaps the vulnerable opening, hard, several times in succession. The thief’s cry punctuates each slap. His curiosity getting the better of him, Illya returns to the other side of the wall.

The little thief’s face is now a furious shade of red, which makes those tearful blue eyes that much brighter in contrast. Illya quickly undoes his belt and zipper to rub and drag his burgeoning shaft against the heat, leaving tracks of precome along those perfect cheekbones.

He shoves his hard dick into the thief’s mouth. A large hand fists a tangle tousled curls as he uses the tight warmth of the thief’s throat to milk his hard length. Despite Illya’s strength and the jostling movements as his hip pistons forward and back, the thief remains firmly and tightly trapped.

  

* * *

 

Napoleon moans around the large and heavy cock in his mouth. His mouth waters under the assault and the masculine scent. This Kuryakin is a brute but also, unfortunately, shares many qualities that Napoleon finds attractive in a partner. He could be enjoying himself if he wasn’t trapped in his current crime scene. There is also the little problem of his exposed backside. His hole still smarts from Kuryakin’s not so gentle slaps. It spasms as if to remind him of the unfair abuse it had just suffered only to remain unsatisfied and unfilled.

What if someone comes across them just now? How many hours until the museum opens? He would never, the Emperor, scourge of galleries and museums would never..

As if reading his mind, Kuryakin suddenly says, “what if I leave you like this, Cowboy until tomorrow? A big surprise for the opening crowd? Beautiful ass exposed and open for whoever wants it. Strangers after strangers using you until you are a mess. They will ruin that beautiful, tight hole, I think. Your punishment, little thief, what do you think?”

Napoleon moans. He can see the headlines now.

**DEBAUCHED THIEF CAUGHT.**

The front pages of the daily newspapers would be filled with photos of Napoleon’s ravaged hole, smeared and filled full of strangers’ come, bruises carved into his skin.

**THE EMPEROR HAS FALLEN! MASTER THIEF UNMASKED TO BE DIRTY PERVERT! LE ROI EST MORT!**

He can only imagine what kind of photos they would take of his face once Kuryakin is done with him, undoubtedly it would be covered and marked by the man’s seed. Kuryakin would make sure of it, to show the world that it was he who caught the infamous Emperor.

“Uggghh!” Impossibly the thick shaft in his throat seems to grow in girth in response to Napoleon’s gasps. It feels like it’s touching and rubbing at the back of his throat.

“What have you caught there, Illya?”

Napoleon shivers as another pair of calloused hands suddenly skims across on his exposed rear.

“A little thief,” Kuryakin tells the stranger on the other side of the wall without slowing down his pace.

Despite the futility, Napoleon wants to turn around to see who the second stranger is. Another night guard? Are there more behind him? How many people must witness his capture?

“Interesting,” the stranger laughs. “Do you mind?” he asks, blunt fingers digging into the supple flesh of Napoleon’s ass.

Napoleon blinks wetly. No, _no_ , he begs futilely with his eyes. Kuryakin shrugs in response.

“Illya, what did you do to him? He’s dripping and already so slick!” A new hand gropes him through his tights. Whimpering, Napoleon finally realizes how hard he has been this entire time and how uncomfortable his drenched dick feels trapped in the body suit. Napoleon’s hips thrust unbiddenly into the stranger's grip, seeking succor for his suffering. Unfortunately, the other man is an ass and leaves Napoleon’s painful erection to drip and strain against its tight Lycra prison.

“Hold still!” The sharp rebuke is followed by another slap across Napoleon's ass. His palm feels just as large and heavy as Illya’s.

Napoleon’s surprised choke draws a ragged gasp from Kuryakin. “That good, Illya?” the newcomer chuckles.

Napoleon feels his cheeks being pulled apart as a wet tongue circles around his rim, chasing the sensitive folds of his flesh. His entrance is shuttered but defenseless against the relentless breach of that firm muscle and the thick fingers stretching and pulling at his rim. His hip pushes and pulls in time to Illya’s thick length in his throat and the new torture behind him. If he still has his wits and voice, he would be begging for them to tear away the catsuit from his lower half.

“Tight.” The new guard breathes between bites to his flesh. Illya can only grunt his agreement.

Two wet fingers, three wet fingers, the new guard could be shoving his whole fist into Napoleon, and there is nothing he would be able to do about it, stuck as he is. Thankfully, an entire fist is not the plan since he hears a zipper being undone and a hot erection slides against the crease between his cheeks. It feels just as large as Illya’s considerable length in his mouth. Actually, as the stranger slowly and methodically presses that burning rod deeper and deeper into Napoleon, it feels considerably larger. The burn and stretch are endless. Napoleon wishes that he could have his voice back so he could share this bit of insight with Kuryakin.

  

* * *

 

While Illya can't see anything because of the wall, he can feel Artyom's assaults due to Napoleon’s constant whimpers around his cock, that beautiful throat tightening and vibrating torturously. Napoleon’s lashes are heavy with tears, and Illya wants nothing more than to wet them with his come. But Illya is going to be damned if he comes before his twin.

“Illya, you need to feel this,” Artyom's voice drifts through the opening. Illya can feel his twin settle into a steady rhythm, pushing and pulling the thief forward and back onto his cock. With both hands gripping sweaty curls, he responds powerfully in kind and the thief rocks between the two of them like a sleeve.

“Are you going to come soon, Illya?” Artyom asks in panting breaths.

“Not before you, suka.”

The little thief, apparently knowing some Russian, whines in response.

Illya notices that the thief’s hands have come up to caress and roll his stiff nipples. The skin-tight bodysuit outlines a pair of tits equally as generous as the thief’s behind. It’s a shame that he does not have any time to play with them. The thief’s fingers are light and soft as a lover's as they tease those peaked buds. Waiting until the thief closes his eyes in respite, Illya quickly yanks on one nipple and twists, hard.

“Arghhhh” The thief cries out in shock and pain.

“Pizdets!” Artyom yells in answering surprise. “What did you do?” Then a beat later, he asks, “do it again!”

Illya bats the thief’s hands away and pinches the other bud equally as hard. The thief sobs against his cock as he kneads those full pecs, undoubtedly sensitive after Illya’s treatment.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon feels himself gushing when Kuryakin cruelly yanked his nipples. They have always been sensitive; now they feel bruised and swollen-large from the abuse as they nudge and brush against the smooth fabric with his motion. But nothing prepares him for what he hears next.

 “Illya, want to fuck him together?”

Napoleon mewls when Illya stills his movement. Just come already, you inhuman bastard, Napoleon thinks and tries all the tricks he can think of to milk Illya dry. The Russian, who must have ice running through his veins, has only worked up a light sweat and seems completely unaffected beyond that. As he pulls out of Napoleon’s mouth, however, he could see that Peril is still (thankfully) human because the guard's considerable length is as hard as steel and flushed in an almost purple shade. Peril _is_ human, just with inhuman control.

Napoleon shivers, thinking about _that_ sliding next to the cock already drilling him.

“Make too much noise, little thief, and others may come,” Illya reminds him with a mocking kiss before disappearing to the other side.

The stranger behind him slows his movement. He can feel thick fingers sliding next to the cock inside him, massaging him from the inside, stretching him wider than he has ever been stretched before.

Napoleon is nearly incoherent with need when impatient hands finally, _finally_ , free his dripping cock from its clothed prison. The slight brush of fabric is almost enough to set him off.

“Enough Illya, he’s got to be ready.” The second guard sounds pained and impatient.

I’m not! Napoleon wants to yell at them but between the thick length pulsing inside him and long fingers rubbing at his prostate, what comes out of his mouth is a long drawn out moan.

“Trust me, he is loose enough.” A sharp slap to his ass accompanies the chuckle.

Napoleon nearly bites through his lip when the second cockhead, Illya’s, presses deep into him. He’s sure that he would tear, just like his suit; there can not be enough room inside him to accommodate two burning lengths.

_He. Can’t._

Napoleon's screams echo through the corridor. Illya’s warning that more guards might come goes unheeded. The combined girth of the two cocks presses tight within Napoleon. He doesn’t think he will survive once they start moving, rubbing in tandem at that secret, pleasure button deep inside of him.

He has never felt so full, so wholly owned.

“Move. _Please move_ ,” he begs when the wait becomes overwhelming.

 

* * *

 

The heat of the thief’s channel is almost unbearable to Illya. Artyom grins manically at him as he slowly, finally, sheaths himself next to his twin. The thief’s rim parts easily to their combined assault. With each snap of their hips, perfectly in sync from a lifetime of practice, they strain and compete to go as deep as possible. The hungry hole blooms beautifully around their onslaught. The little thief is reduced to a groaning, trembling mess. Illya thinks that he must have stuffed a fist into his mouth because the screams have transformed into muffled gasps. Artyom’s pace, and consequently his own, eventually becomes desperate.

They take hold of the thief's flesh in a tight vice for more leverage to plow into him harder; the movement is strong enough that the thief is forced onto his toes with every pull only to be slammed down and forward by the synchronous snap of their hips afterward. From the sound of flesh against flesh, Illya thinks that they are probably fucking the thief hard enough now to be bruising him with their balls. His shouts of pleasure surprise him when the thief tightens all of a sudden on one particular shove, jostling his cockhead directly against Artyom’s within that velvet channel.

“Doing ok, big brother?” Artyom’s smirks at him in his usual annoying manner. He’s feeling more generous this time, however, seeing Artyom’s own flushed panting face, blond hair limp and dripping with sweat, no doubt a mirror image of his own.

Illya can only imagine what the thief’s pretty face is like now. The only thing visible to them on this side is the cloth-covered perfection of a generous backside, jiggling in rhythm from their movement. He is only beginning to reach lower, thinking to touch the thief’s long-neglected cock, when the thief comes in a shattering scream, completely untouched. A chain reaction follows.

He feels, more than hears, Artyom’s shouts; the warm and wet rush of Artyom’s come coats his cock, precipitating Illya into his orgasm as his flood of seeds joins his brother.

“Ahhh!” Satisfaction echoes through the hall. It may be him alone or all three of them together. Illya does not know nor care.

Pleasure carries him from peak to peak as he comes again and again.

 

* * *

 

“Napoleon!”

Artyom opens his eyes. He’s half slumped over Napoleon’s ass and half against Illya to the side. His body feels so pleasantly drained that he’s not sure he wants to move even as he realizes how sticky he has become. Even though he (and undoubtedly Illya as well) has completely softened, Napoleon’s body still grips them tight within like a vice. His cock jerks with interest at that image. Illya shoves a sharp elbow into his side as a warning. It is not necessary because Artyom couldn’t achieve erection immediately again, not for anything or anyone in the world right now. Then Illya is carefully pulling out, and Artyom’s cock is bravely, but foolishly, trying to flag to attention all by itself because it does not want to leave that wet and warm perfection. Artyom draws out with regret and a large glob of come.

His cock twitches again. But even if he’s willing, going by the minute tremors of the body under him, he doubts that Napoleon is in any state to play anymore. He helps Illya to quickly and efficiently pull Napoleon out and gets his first look at his Cowboy’s face.

Napoleon is a mess.

Sweat drenched curls are in disarray across his forehead. The flush across his cheeks remains a furious scarlet, still refusing to die away. But it’s his eyes that mesmerize Artyom; he has never seen them clouded with such languid, pleasurable glaze.

His chest fills with pride at the idea of him being responsible for replacing Napoleon’s control and put-together appearance with such a well-fucked look.

Caressing one cheek gently, he gazes down at Napoleon who smiles beatifically back at him.

“Thank you!” Napoleon turns his face to nuzzle Artyom’s palm and then Illya’s in turn, kissing whatever skin he can reach as he breathes their name. “Thank you. Thank you for doing this for me.”

Artyom smiles softly back, pleased. The three of them sit together on the floor, tenderly stroking each other as they wait for their hearts to stop racing.

Eventually, Illya gets up first, “I will draw bath.”

They miss his heat immediately; Napoleon shivers in response while Artyom distracts him with kisses, “you’re doing ok. Kotik. My lovely kotik.”

For the first time, Artyom finally has enough wits about him to look Napoleon over. Napoleon may think that his fancy bespoke suits make him look sharp and elegant, but Artyom has never seen Napoleon’s raw seductive power so blatantly on display.

The catsuit emphasizes the wide shoulders and the trim waist, clearly delineating the firm pectoral muscles that Artyom loves to cup in his hands. The breadth of Napoleon’s chest is balanced by his equally muscled lower half. The Lycra spreads across the thick thighs that Illya loves to bite and bend over his shoulders. While even wool pants highlight Napoleon’s round ass, the thin material stretches and dips along every curve and valley, leaving nothing to the imagination. Though drenched in their combined bodily fluids, the tights are mostly intact save for torn nest of cloth cradling Napoleon's cock. Even soft and dripping emissions, it’s a beautiful, artful thing, like the rest of him.

Resting in his lap, Napoleon makes the lewdest and most perfect pinup that Artyom has ever seen.

While this is an image that will stay with Artyom forever, it is also one that he wants to keep all to himself; he and Illya already share so much between them.

He finds the zipper and slowly begins to peel the suit away from Napoleon’s body. Napoleon shivers in protest as his sweaty skin are exposed. “Shhh, Cowboy, let’s get you out of this wet thing.” He leaves kisses down each inch of revealed skin in apology. Napoleon acquiesces quickly, docile as a lamb. Artyom does not doubt that when the high fades, he will back to being his usual mouthy self.

Illya comes back into the room, already naked, as he finishes pulling the suit off of Napoleon. Looking at Napoleon’s slack expression, Artyom thinks that perhaps walking is still out of the question. It’s easy enough to gather and carry the naked man to the bathroom. Napoleon nuzzles his throat with a grateful purr.

One corner of Illya’s mouth lifts, "we should take photo to remind him the next time he gets mouthy.”

“For blackmail you mean.”

Unfortunately, neither of them had the foresight (which he is sure Gaby would have) to save any potentially useful material for the future.

 

* * *

 

Illya settles back into the tub with a sigh as Artyom hands Napoleon to him. He had been amazed that Napoleon managed to find and install a tub big enough to fit all three of them. But of course, his Cowboy is nothing if not extremely resourceful.

“Illya, Illya.” Napoleon turns on top of him, so they are flushed chest against chest, to pepper him with kisses as if he hasn’t seen Illya for weeks, instead of minutes.

Illya shares a grin with his brother. Holding Napoleon still, he kisses back deeply, tongue thoroughly napping the inside of Napoleon’s mouth. “You were so good, Napoleon. Beautiful. So good to Artyom and me.”

He's sure that the flush spreading across Napoleon's cheek is not only from the rising heat of the water.

Artyom sits down on the other sides and pulls Napoleon onto his chest. He washes Napoleon’s hair in a thick foamy lather, drawing breathless murmurs from Napoleon as he scrapes his fingernails across Napoleon’s scalp.

Illya sees his twin occasionally breaking away from his task to tweak at Napoleon’s nipples, chuckling and nibbling at Napoleon’s ear. He knows that none of them are capable of anything more, but Napoleon starts to shift and twist as if he’s ready to go another round. That reminds him. He shifts and yanks up Napoleon’s lower half so Illya can examine him more closely. Napoleon’s knees settle familiarly onto his shoulders.

Napoleon’s hole is a tender red; it’s doing a valiant job of greedily trying to keep everything still deep inside him. As a reward, Illya places a kiss on the rose swollen rim.

“Pidaras!" Artyom shouts at him.

Illya growls, torn between wanting to use his mouth to snarl at his brother or to continue with his task at hand. He laps at Napoleon’s hole, coaxing it open with his tongue and gentle fingers. Napoleon, beyond sensitive, whines into Artyom’s neck while his brother insults him in ceaseless Russian curses.

“Illya is a brute.” Artyom licks Napoleon’s flushed cheek. “But we want to make sure it wasn’t too much for you. We never played that hard before.”

Napoleon nods his assent and moans, “so good to me.”

Illya frowns, wondering why Artyom is getting all the credit when he’s the one doing most of the work. He bites Napoleon on a tender cheek to remind him before he teases the wrinkled entrance to relax with his tongue. Their combined come, along with a sizable amount of lube, finally gush out in rivers down his fingers and across his tongue. He looks up and sees Artyom and Napoleon locked in a heated embrace. Napoleon whines and pants into Artyom’s open mouth. He then raises up clumsily in a cascade of water to fall into Illya’s embrace so he can crush his mouth to the other twin as well.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon has experiences with some of the best painkillers that money can buy, and he hated every single moment he was on them. Sure they numbed the terrible pain to a whisper, but he had always felt muddled and dull as he floats in a haze of drugged daze. It is nothing like how he feels now as he floats through his headspace where he’s warm and safe but so, almost painfully, attuned to his own body and Illya and Artyom’s movements. He feels good. More than good.

Alive. Cherished. Loved.

He wishes he could tell them as much, but he can’t quite get his mouth to work to shape the words; he hears every endearment and praise they whisper in his ear and feels every caress that they leave on his skin.

“Thank you. I love you both. Ya lyublyu tyebya.” In their space, he can bare his soul. Napoleon is hazily aware that someone, Illya by his scent, has carried him out of the bath. He shivers briefly before another pair of hands covers him in soft cotton and briskly rubs him dry. His Artyom, he smiles, just as efficient as his Illya.

His Russian Perils. His twins. So alike and yet so easy for Napoleon to tell apart because he has completely memorized the differences in their scents, in their touches, in their laughs.

Napoleon sighs as he snuggles happily into the space between them.

"Rest, Cowboy” follows a kiss on his brow.

"Ya lyublyu tyebya, Napoleon.”

"Tozhe." And then, the Emperor falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The story contains FANTASY RAPE PLAY! Everything is 100% consensual and carefully prepared because Illya would never let anyone, not even himself, hurt Napoleon.


End file.
